


Love is poison

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-26
Updated: 2012-01-26
Packaged: 2017-10-30 03:36:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/327315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Future!fic with detached, ice queen, adult Sansa, in response to a pairing/prompt meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love is poison

Sansa no longer looks back, finding that to do so is to obscure her purpose and to cloud her clarity of mind. Playing at Alayne has left her with a talent for dissociation, and it is through this delusion that she is able to function so well, to, as others around her have said, play the game. Of course, there are times, when she is alone, when she is able to put the mask aside, if only for a brief moment. But she is uneasy then, recalling Petyr’s advice, more of an order really, that she never drop her guard, not even for a moment. Those chinks will always be noticeable to someone, and if she values her reputation, her life even, in these dangerous times, she’d be wise to obey. 

She’s married Harry, as they’d always planned, and while it’s not unpleasant, she craves more. Sansa is loathe to admit it, but once her secret was revealed, a good deal of the color went out of her life. She’d learned to thrive in the game, and had secretly thrilled to the knowledge that every interaction in her life, for gods knew how long, had been an act. And the sweetest part was, no one had ever realized it. Not even Harry. But she has been too long with Petyr, with Father, although she no longer is able to think of him in those terms, instead preferring to consider him by name. She’d never call him that, though. It’s always, “my lord, my lady” now, for she rules the Vale, and Baelish, although risen by its own merits, was such a little house in comparison.

He still comes to her at night, after she and Harry have supped, and some nights, after they have lain together. There is no passion between them, only a cordiality that while pleasant, still maintains the distance that she craves. It is then that they discuss further plans, things that are too dark for her pleasant-faced husband to even contemplate, things that, knowing Harry’s inclinations to reveal all, are best kept from his grasp. Petyr often enjoys a glass of red while they meet, and lately, their conversations have grown more frantic, whispered scheming as time grows short. Things are unraveling throughout the countryside and they have chosen to take advantage of this. So many thrive in chaos, and Petyr is living proof of this phenomenon. 

When he hands her the small glass vial, he does not have to elaborate upon its contents. It will keep until she has quickened, and when the heir has been secured, they will act. 

“Just a drop,” he cautions. “That is all we will need.”

\---

When Sansa bears the good news to her protector, a genuine smile creases his lips, but only for a moment does he permit his composure to lapse. He waxes upon his plans for the child-to-be, and Sansa, ever dissembling, nods and smiles. She is a complacent and dutiful pupil still, after all this time. She nods in agreement as Petyr speaks, and allows him to kiss her on the cheek before he takes his leave. He has embroidered a simple tale; when Harry has weakened, sickened, he will aid his grieving wife to ease her burden. And when the inevitable happens, he will take his place by her side. 

Sansa smiles, thanking him for his kindnesses. She is pleased when she realizes how easy it will be, and how clean. _And_ , she muses, _there will be sufficient remaining, if in the end_ \-- But she checks herself before following the thought through. It will be best to hold this in her heart until such time when it may become a necessity, rather than an idle thought. But she holds Petyr’s cast-off glass for a long while, turning it about in her hands, enjoying the weight and the coolness of the pewter, and merely permitting herself to imagine the possibilities.


End file.
